AN: Same rules apply: if you login, review, and have PMs open, expect an excerpt!

AN #2: I had a bit of a change in plans; rather than making things confusing, I'm going to move the chapters to the second part of this fic. This way, the first part will go by faster and I'll be able to add what Joe has been up to in the future as well.

AN #3: And yes, this is the second update in two days; I thought it was best to get this out because of the changes I'm making!

CHAPTER SIX

Bundled in blankets to protect herself from the harsh Icelandic winds outside, Cara watched Joe aimlessly flip through news channels. She had awoken only a few hours ago to him near her bedside at their cottage. Other than a curt inquiry about how she was feeling and a glass of water, he had been stolid as he kept his eyes trained on the small television screen. However, when the news anchor read breaking news in Icelandic, he leaned forward and turned on English captions to decipher her extremely rushed speech.

"Last night, at an extremely exclusive event hosted for the world's elite collectors, an art auction was the target of theft by the notorious group of thieves responsible for heists around the globe. Witnesses recall the power being cut. When the light was returned, three canvases, a Fabergé egg, and a diamond necklace were found missing. Police and Interpol are engaged in a mission to find the culprit, made difficult by stolen security footage. There were no injuries, save for the wife of an ambassador who fainted from shock..."

Joe's eyes hardened and he stared at the screen. His gaze whirled on the woman in bed, and he pointed angrily at the images flashing by with the remote in his hand. "Some missions go wrong, I understand that. But this—How the hell were we in the crosshairs of a planned heist?"

She rubbed her temples, his loud boom rattling her brain. "I don't know," she muttered, voice barely audible. "I was told that there would be a CIA agent that would approach me with information. The only marker I would have was that goddamn blue tie, but someone knew, and intercepted."

He sat back in his chair, flabbergasted, breaths coming in angrily spurts. "Why the hell did you take that drink?" he demanded.

"I thought he was an agent!" she burst. "He was clearly disguised and it had the CIA's fingerprints all over it."

Joe scowled. Everything she said matched the theories of the agency and other operatives on site. Even Maxwell testified that his intention had been to disclose a list of Haber's products through an agent with a distinct marker. While he didn't trust Edwards in the slightest, he was beginning to lose reason behind his constant defense against Cara.

She broke the silence that followed his contemplation. "Are you done yelling at me now? I want to get back on this job."

He felt slightly guilty and sighed. "I'm sorry," he grumbled under his breath. "You're not getting on the mission at all—the medic that came by said you need at least two days, especially since that poison was mixed into alcohol. I'm going to follow up on a lead."

Cara barely argued against his assertion and sank further into her sheets. "What lead?" she asked.

He debated telling her, and chastised himself for his paranoia. After Maxwell and the CIA's recognition, they were officially associates on the mission. There were some things that were foolish to hide.

"Catherine's son was seen a block away from the scene. Granted, it was at an overpriced daycare, but wherever that boy is, Catherine is usually around. We have permission to conduct an independent operation if there is reasonable suspicion that she is linked with Schmidt and was involved in the burglary."

She picked up the glass of water off of the nightstand and traced the rim as she thought. "You want to go to Blackthorne to gather intel, don't you?" she deduced, raising an eyebrow.

Joe nodded and grimaced slightly. His original intention had been to disappear without a word about his intentions, but recent events had him rethinking his extreme precautions. "Yes, but I want to do this one alone."

"I understand," Cara nodded slowly. He knew she really didn't, but it was fine by him if she believed that his reluctance was due to trauma from the intense military-style instruction at the institution. He hadn't gone back for years since his graduation for a reason, and he wasn't eager to return to his assassin roots... though the woman in front of him was exactly that.

As if reading his thoughts, she cleared her throat. "You know I kill the bad guys, right?" she said hesitantly. "I went to Gallagher, not Blackthorne. And while I know you spent your entire childhood there, it doesn't make you one of those killers."

He turned his head, ignoring the slightly wounded frown that appeared on her face at his rejection. "I know," he said, though he didn't specify which statement he was replying to. "Maxwell has booked you a return flight to a base in England where he'll debrief you."

"You're going straight to the States?" she inquired, surprised.

Joe nodded. "It's about time I returned to my alma mater for a visit."

"Empty your pockets there. Walk through the sensors when you're done."

Joe complied with the soldier's directions and did as directed. He was given a glower at the loaded gun he placed into the tray, and merely shrugged his shoulders when he stepped through the detectors without a problem. He raised his hands in the air, just as he had done almost daily when boys were caught smuggling in knives from the kitchens. He returned only his phone and keys to his pockets, and was about to enter the facility of the school when the soldier's thundering voice stopped him.

"Wait." To his surprise, the man handed him back his gun with a firm pat on his back. "I was a year below you, Solomon. The kids here have gotten rowdier, and you might need that."

He tucked the weapon into his trousers and nodded. When he strolled into the hall, past the security booth, he closed his eyes and allowed the memories to flood him. Blackthorne was nowhere near as glamorous as Gallagher—its appearance was as harsh and unforgiving as the tall chain link fences implied. It had the reputation of a school for misbehaving and criminal boys for a reason; it trained them like they were animals rather than humans, carving them into versions of themselves vastly different from what they had been when they arrived.

The wooden floors of the main hall were bare, walls decorated with army recruitment posters and lists of rules. There were warning signs, pictures of military comanders, and idealized portraits of men that were actually convicts. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his coat, his dress shoes clicking against the scuffed floors. His eyes slid to the large double doors of the Grand Hall. It was not decorated like a ballroom; rather, the white tiled foors and grey walls hosted tables, benches, and a stage encased in plexi-glass to prevent teachers from their students.

The school wasn't meant to fix rowdy boys, turn them into model citizens. It was meant to do the polar opposite of what it advertised. Blackthorne Academy made criminals.

Many of the true horrors of the school took place in the sublevels, which were actually bunkers of weapons and stadiums for staged drills. The bedrooms upstairs were filled with stiff cotts that would be flipped over if the corners were not neatly tucked. He envisioned the metal doors that would lock at precisely midnight during weekdays, and one in the morning during weekends. Several speakers were installed into walls, the blaring bells serving as a wake-up call at four-thirty.

Joe had seen the boys outside running their drills, their teachers screaming only inches from their faces, degrading the impressionable teenagers with their insults and curses. Thin from rationed meals, but muscular from relentless training. He was sure that each of them had callouses on their palms and scars on their bodies from the guns and knives. Dull eyes and dark circles, plagued by sleep deprivation and nightmares.

He passed the door to the "Treatment Room". In reality, it was a staircase that led down to a psychologist's office, whose job it was to instill heartlessness and a lack of mercy. They were assassins, and guilt would not be acceptable in their field.

Walking through the institution, Joe wondered how he had survived. The first few mornings had been absolute hell and torture, and he remembered showering away tears and sweat, and trembling afterwards on the uncomfortable bed. His limbs would be shaking violently with exhaustion. But eventually, his mind numbed and he could no longer register pain, and he graduated with the same roboticness that his predecessors had. They had been taught one lesson about life: kill, or be killed.

Joe entered the hall that led to both the headmaster's office and the teacher's quarters. He read familiar names, people that he had grown up with, men that returned as professors to contribute to the cycle of horrors. Markus Greyback, Derek Steinfeld, Dr. Steve...

"Oh, Joseph," a feminine voice hummed behind him. The eery way her voice bounced on the stone walls chilled him to the bone, and he turned to find a redheaded woman wiggling her fingers at him in greeting.

He swallowed hard. He was not scared of Catherine, but it was her ability to play mind games that unsettled him. "Hello, Cathy. I've been looking for you, these past few weeks."

She gracefully stepped forward. The dainty way she held herself made her seem mad, as she swayed in her flowing white skirt and periwinkle blouse. "I know. You looked positively delicious at the auction house. That lady on your arm had my spot." She wrinkled her nose and gauged his reaction.

Joe bristled, but stopped short when he spotted the boy peeking out from behind his mother. His eyes widened—he looked nothing like his mother, his dark eyes and hair a stark contrast from her emerald green irises and flaming red locks. He had a hauntingly blank look in his eyes, thin frame enveloped by ratty clothing that was too big.

"Is he..." Joe licked his chapped lips, thinking back to the mistakes he made exactly nine years ago. His stomach was in knots and he felt sick.

Catherine rocked back on her heels and shrugged. "I don't know. What do you think, darling?" She slinked forward, dangerously close, scratching his cheek with a fingernail. "Just as handsome as I remembered."

He stared into her wild eyes and grabbed her wrist. "Your son is so much older than the last time I saw you," he said firmly, blocking out the doubts her open-ended answer left. "Get yourself together, Goode."

She snorted, switching to an authorative and cold tone when she spoke to her son. "Come here, Zachary."

The boy shuffled forward meekly, craning his head to look at Joe and attempt to straighten his shoulders into a more confident posture. "Yes, Mom," he mumbled.

"Speak clearly. What did I say about calling me that?"

"Catherine—" Joe tried to intervene, horrified with her behavior.

Her son bit his lip and spoke louder. "Yes, Mother," he said, his voice as empty as he looked.

Catherine regarded him for a few more terse moments and grinned at Joe. "I'm going to be in Switzerland for a few days. Have fun, will you? I don't have his things, so you might need to splurge a bit."

He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"You tell anyone where I am or that you have my son, you are as good as dead, Joseph," she said, the smile on her face maniacal. She stepped backwards, nearly sprinting out of a side door and disappearing into a secret passage in the walls before he could catch her.

Joe turned around and ran his fingers through his hair, watching the child glare at the place his mother had been standing with hatred not meant for an eight year-old. He squatted down to his level carefully, noting the way the boy shrank away, and spoke to him softly. Undoubtedly, Catherine had instilled some form of training in the boy and his weakness could have been a façade.

"What's your name, bud?" he asked.

A little harrumph. "You heard my mother," he said snappily. "My name is Zachary Goode."

Joe was taken aback by his curtness. "I'm sorry—I must not have been paying attention. Can I call you Zach?" The boy nodded, and Joe continued, not sure how to talk to someone so young. "Since your mom is taking some time to go on a trip, you're going to have to come with me. But first I want to check something."

Zach scrunched his nose. "Okay. Mommy says I'm nothin' but trouble, so you might not want me, Mister."

His chest constricted as he quickly scanned the boy for bugs, and swiped the handheld detector installed in his phone. Other than a button on his shirt, there was nothing—Catherine didn't seem to concerned about her son's whereabouts.

"You won't be any trouble. Where do you usually go when your mom has work?"

The boy shrugged. "Usually I just stay home. Mother taught me how to make mac 'n cheese and alphabet soup."

Joe pursed his lips. It sounded like something Catherine would do, leaving her child alone to starve. He stared at the boy, masking the pity he felt for him, and instead grasped his shoulder. He steered him towards one of the many passages that led out of the school so that he could escape, undetected. While the security guard had been lenient by allowing him his gun, he figured that his kindness was limited when it came to leaving with an extra person that did not belong in the institution.

His mission at Blackthorne hadn't been entirely fruitless—he had the valuable opportunity to save the boy from his own mother.

Each of the times he had been left alone with a child, things had gone extremely wrong. The years he spent with the Circle left him nightmares that lasted for over a decade. Yet when he looked down at Zachary Goode, son of one of the biggest names of the Inner Circle, he saw himself.

Young, lost, and hopeless. Zach was nearly half his age when he had joined, but nevertheless, it was an opportunity to give him a chance at a life that Catherine would never be able to give him.

His stomach coiled in anxiety as he led him to his car, the boy shuffling along without a protest and the stiff movement of a machine.

"Let's get you something to eat, Zach," he suggested, eyeing his thin frame. "Then... then we'll go home."

Max stood at the foot of the commercial plane, watched the stream of passengers disembark and climb into the bus. He watched a familiar woman climb down the steps unsteadily, one hand gripping the railing while the other held a small carry on. Her black hair flew in the wind and he offered to take her belongings when she reached the ground. She handed them over gratefully, and wrung her fingers.

"How was your flight?" he inquired, not oblivious to her anxious state. He reached towards her to peck her cheek, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion when she leaned away.

Her eyes darted to the black Lexus parked a few yards away from a luggage carrier. "Nauseating. Whatever they dropped into my drink still isn't out of my system." She slid into the backseat when their driver opened the door, and Max took a seat besides her. He was watching her very carefully, and she gnawed on her lip.

"I don't know what happened back there. I'll make sure you're never at risk like that again," he promised, voice firm. "The CIA wants to debrief you independently of the task force created by Interpol, and I've convinced them to put it off for a few days."

She nodded and remained silent, her eyes trained on the passing buildings of Heathrow. "He's starting to trust me as a mission associate," she said, voice low.

Maxwell hummed under his breath, pleased. "Good. You'll know when to move onto our honeypot phase." At the sour expression that crossed her face, he placed a hand over her knee. "Remember, stay in your comfort zone and I'll take care of the rest if things get out of hand."

She exhaled. He'd misinterpreted her displeasure, reading into what he wanted to hear, rather than the truth. "I hate honeypot missions. I'm a goddamn assassin, Max, not a whore."

"You aren't a whore. This is for a purpose." He grabbed her chin, his eyes staring into hers, unwavering. "Once I have him, everything will go back to normal."

Cara fought back a scowl. There it was again: the cockiness, the arrogance, and the use of 'I' rather than 'we'. He was her boss, not her equal; it was as if they hadn't been together for the six months that she'd been assigned on the mission. The hours they spent mapping and plotting the perfect entrapment had evolved into something much more dangerous in their field. She knew his sudden affection with her at the onset of their planning was suspiciously characteristic of just another man trying to use her, but she kept her mouth shut and her paranoia trained on her operation.

Instead, she kept her anger bottled inside, and offered a small quirk of her lips in response. "Normal is equivalent to kill missions every other week and no vacation time," she said, testing him for his reply.

He caught her implications and chuckled. "You might want to change your definition of normal, then. I was thinking of a nice one-bedroom apartment near Hampstead. Plenty of city-life, and maybe even a permanent transfer to Interpol, if that's what you want."

Cara closed her eyes and let him press a chaste kiss to her lips. "Fine," she conceded, eyeing his victorious grin warily. "I'll do it for Hampstead."